barefoot on glass
by MedusaOfTheSpecies
Summary: As a prisoner in a cell, Fleur has lots of time to remember, and even more motivation to plot her escape. :: Warnings inside.


Written for the Potions Assignment, task two (Prompt: 'It's her chaos that makes her beautiful.') Crystals & Gemstones club (Ammonite: Write about a person or creature being captured against their will because of their beauty.), Gobstones (Bronze stone, (genre) horror, (word) covet, (word) frost), the Around the World Challenge (Indonesia- Imbue), Creepypastas (Write about somebody having sudden memories back to a bad childhood experience), and Showtime (Night surgeon- (word) remember).

A/N: Warnings for mentioned of attempted rape, and succeeded kidnapping. Please don't read if any of these things are potential triggers. Also, I decided against writing out Fleur's accent.

Thank you to AJ for betaing.

 **o.O.o**

The cell Fleur was in had the distinct smell of death, like something was rotting, perfumed by a sickly sweet scent. It was a stark reminder of how far she had fallen, to be captured like this—she had never let any place she had ever lived in smell like this. She was a Veela, a creature of fire and life, burning bolder than anything in her path.

"Do you know just how beautiful you are?" her captor whispered reverently, stroking her hair with lustful eyes. She didn't know him, didn't know anything about how she had ended up here other than the way he had coveted her. "My beautiful little Veela, do you know?"

Fleur glared at him for the possessiveness in his grip, her tone utterly frosty as she spat out the words. "Yes, I do."

Beauty was terror. He would think she was a pretty face and she would skin him alive for his mistake, for it's her chaos that makes her beautiful.

 **o.O.o**

 _The first time Fleur Delacour gets a second look, she is eleven and walking down the marketplace with her mother, when a man—and he is not the kind type of man, she can see the greed in his expression—grabs her hand, tracing a cold and rough finger against her arm._

" _Your daughter, oui?" he asks and Apolline Delacour's face hardens and Fleur is confused because it's a simple question but there is something sinister in his eye contact and this situation has alarm bells ringing in her head and—_

" _Oui." Her mother glares at the man so sharply he takes a step back before disappearing into the crowd without another word. Around them, everyone passing by avoids eye contact, whispering in hushed tones to themselves._

 _Fleur doesn't ask and her mother never explains._

 **o.O.o**

"I'm doing this for you." The man was still staring at her hungrily, like he could devour her alive with his eyes. Fleur wished he could, wished that she could poison him from inside out with all her hatred and the white-hot rage she felt in her bones. "We're meant to be together."

Fleur snorted derisively at that as an answer. Today, her captor had gotten bolder, pulling her onto his lap, but not before he put a body-bind of her. Like most men, he was interested in her beauty, but also feared her abilities, both Veela and magical.

"Do you love me?" Fleur whispered, her tone seductive and husky.

The man's eyes widened as he licked his lips. "Of course, you are a creature of beauty. People like you and me, we're meant to be together. I'm meant to tame you. This is what magic has willed. You're _mine._ "

She was no creature and if there was anything she had learned, it was that she refused to be any kind of a possession. She was her own person, witch, fighter, warrior, and she would kill this man when she could for daring to claim otherwise.

"Liar. You will never claim me."

He slapped her, his palm making a violent cracking sound as they hit her nose and cheek. Her nose began to gush and Fleur wiped with her robe sleeve, glaring back. A tiny puddle was already forming at her feet, staining her bare skin.

"You will be mine," the man repeated again, forcing her chin up so they maintained eye contact. "Forever and always."

 **o.O.o**

 _It's only when it happens to Gabrielle that Fleur realizes, the day she sees a family friend of theirs follow her youngest sister into the library. The man has greying hair and a heavy slur, his breath tainted with the bitter smell of alcohol._

 _Fleur is just passing by—she isn't meant to see any of it—but her parents are there, throwing spells against the locked door of the library. The man she once considered kind is about to commit the vilest of acts and Fleur prays to anyone out there that her sister will be okay._

 _It takes a few minutes but they manage to break the spells. The man is talented but it is her parents' manor and it listens to them. The man is sent to jail and Gabrielle—Gabrielle's eyes are more haunted than the eyes of a girl so young should be._

" _Obliviate her," Fleur's mother says so quietly they all lean forward to hear her as Gabrielle shivers._

 _Her father looks like his heart is breaking but his wand is steady. Fleur remembers all the golden childhood days where he vowed to protect his daughters against the rest of the world._

"Obliviate," _he says quietly and Gabrielle slumps over. Her mother reaches over to pull a blanket over her daughter's sleeping form and Fleur wants to cry at the way her sister looks so young in her sleep._

 _Her father slips out the door, headed upstairs, without a single word, and their mother collapses onto a couch._

" _His eyes," Fleur begins and her mother looks up tiredly. "He looks greedy, the way the man at the market looked."_

 _Her mother does not answer but Fleur understands anyways. It is a vicious word, the one they live in. People are not kind, and their family must protect each other._

 **o.O.o**

"Do you remember how we met?" her captor says, wrapping an arm around her to kiss her forehead. He sounds like a fanatic recounting a romantic story and Fleur's lips curve in disgust. Their story is one of crime and hatred, not a love tale for the ages.

Still, there's something in his words. Fleur couldn't remember everything—her mind is a blur of faces and voices, of half-faded memories and thoughts—but she knows this: there was a small girl she loved, a sister perhaps, and she took her place. Better to condemn herself to this fate than leave someone she loved to suffer.

"No." Fleur attempted a sweet smile, fluttering her eyelashes. "Can you tell me the story?"

He smiled, preening at her lovesick tone. "Well, I'm glad you're finally understanding. You're meant to be mine, Fleur Delacour. I love you."

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was meant to be his—meant to be his downfall. She would imbue him with feelings of love.

As he spoke, she plotted.


End file.
